“Did she go down with the ship?” I’d asked Mrs. Roberts.
“No, indeed, mam. There wasn’t one drowned on the Gwladys Pritchard,” Mrs. Roberts had assured us. “That Miss Pritchard she was marry to my cousin, Captain Lloyd, since—dear me, I don’t know when. They keepin’ a public-house in Bluemaris now. Ô! she is gone stout, too!”
“It would have been prettier if she’d been drowned,” Blanche had said softly.
“Mam?” Mrs. Roberts had said.
But Mrs. Waters had finished the story by telling us gently, “Anyhow, the Lloyds have three of the sweetest little grandchildren; I’ve seen them!”
Evidently she had thought that for either woman or ship to be safe in harbour like that was better than any more picturesque finale.... Well! I don’t know....
* * * * *
We reached the flagstaff, and set down our pots of paint among the buffets of gorse that had sprays of purple ling and blue scabious growing through and making a bouquet of each.
Billy’s shirt-sleeves are always rolled up to the elbow; the sleeves of my white cotton frock are three-quarter length; so we were both equipped for work, though I’d refused the offer of Mrs. Roberts’ sackcloth apron. It was too coal-y and butter-y and paraffiny and scented with hen! But here the heady warm fragrance of the gorse almost drowned the smell of our paints.
“Scarlet, and black, and white? Scarlet for her hat and jacket, eh?” suggested Billy. “And how are we going to paint her hands and face? What colour’s flesh?”